First, our parents [*Inadvertently omitted chapter*]

I call my parents and tell them I’m going over to Heather’s and I’ll see them tomorrow. My dad’s puzzled for a moment, but my mom gets it right away and starts crying. Then, classic Mom, she pulls herself together and asks if I need my toothbrush. Heather’s listening; she holds out her hand, and without thinking, I hand her my phone. “It’s OK, Mrs. Lane,” she says, turning away from me and shielding the phone with one hand. “I bought a toothbrush for him.” Over her shoulder, I can see the edge of what looks like a wicked grin. “Yes, ma’am, I thought of everything. I’m going to take very good care of him. . . . Goodbye, sir. Thank you. . . . Thank you, ma’am. I’m happy, too. I wish I’d done this years ago.” Her grin widens. “I’ll try to remember to call you Karen, but it will take a while. . . . We can talk about that another time, when he isn’t standing right here. . . . Yes, ma’—Karen. We will. Goodbye.”

“Well,” I observe as she hands back the phone, “that sounded like an interesting conversation.”

“You have no idea,” Heather smirks. “And you probably never will.”

I decide to let that go. I twine my fingers through hers and we walk out hand in hand.

“Where’s your car?” Heather asks.

“Just around the corner,” I tell her. “Where’s yours?”

“At home,” she tells me, a small smile playing impishly around the corners of her mouth. “My folks dropped me off here on their way out of town.”

“Wow,” I say as I lead her to my car. “It was really good of them to leave you the house like this.”

I open the door for her, and her face glows with joy—and love? It’s still hard for me to believe, even as she pulls my face to hers for a quick kiss. She settles into the seat and reaches for the buckle as I close the car door. I get myself situated and start the car; once we’re on the road, Heather says, “To be honest, they made me nervous. What if you’d turned me down? I would have had to bum a lift from you anyway, back to an empty house—it would have been miserable. I argued with them a little, but they wouldn’t have it.

“Mom said, ‘I’ve seen how that young man looks at you. He’s been in love with you for years, even while you made him miserable talking about your boyfriends.’” I can feel my face flush. Heather comments, “I said they never said ‘I told you so,’ but Mom couldn’t quite keep herself from scolding me a little for how I treated you. I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry . . . I promise, I’ll make it all up to you.”

I take one hand off the wheel, capture hers, and give it a squeeze. “It’s OK, love. If we’re really together—I’m sorry, I don’t doubt you, it’s just—it’s going to take a while for this to really sink in; but if I have you now, I don’t care about anything else.”

Heather squeezes my hand back and says huskily, “Thank you, Andrew. My parents were right: you’re worth ten of any boy I ever dated before now. I wish it hadn’t taken me so long to see it. I can’t tell you how glad I am that you were still here for me.” She clears her throat and continues, “I was afraid . . . but my parents weren’t. You weren’t dating anyone else—Alyssa assured me that was still true last week—so they were sure you still felt the same way about me. They will say ‘I told you so’ about that one,” she adds, then kisses my hand.

After a few moments of silence, a thought strikes me. “Heather, when did you start wearing your hair up like that? It looks really nice, but I’ve never seen you do that before.”

There’s an odd note in her voice when she answers me. “It’s called a French twist. I don’t usually wear it this way; this is an experiment.”

“Oh. Why?” I ask, feeling like I’m missing something.

“You’ll see.”